codenames
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: [USUK Assassin!AU] In another lifetime, "America" is only his name when he's with England. They have a particular set of skills that are complimentary in more ways than one. Warnings for death, violence, and dubious morals.


His mother had named him Alfred. That's name that goes on his paycheck—it's on the bills, his insurance, the lease for the tiny blue-wallpapered apartment he rents once a month. It's what his neighbors call out when they want to get his attention. Sometimes he even says it out loud, just to prove the name is still connected to him, that maybe it played a part in _creating_ him.

But at work, with his partner, he goes by America.

Like the country. His country.

(He figures he's spilled so much of his own blood for this nation; surely it owes him a cool name?)

* * *

The nature of his work is private. That's the sort of thing he tells his relatives when they get bored enough to ask. Or maybe, "I'm involved in national security, but that's all you need to know." People think that America is probably FBI. Secret ops. Some guy with a badge, a gun, and a mission. They're at least right about the last two.

His organization runs a tight operation. Real slick. The word assassin sounds more awesome than it actually is (a glorified trash collector), but at least the pay and the digs are nice. Not that America's in it for that. America has greater ideals. When he was fourteen, his girlfriend's father beat the shit out of her until she inhaled her cheekbone, right in front of America's eyes, and he couldn't do a thing about it. She died. Now America does things about it.

He's the hero. He puts the bad guys down.

* * *

Alfred watches Saturday morning cartoons and collects little UFO figures. He is cheery, and bright, and always helps the elderly Mrs. Daniels to carry her grandson's newest gifts up the apartment complex stairs. She doesn't know America.

America just got a black-and-white picture from his employer. He's going to kill the man in the picture, and be back in time to eat Spaghetti-Os for dinner.

* * *

His partner's name is England. At least, that's his codename.

Like the country.

England might not have a birth name, actually. England is England and very little else. Sometimes America believes that his partner doesn't have a life beyond their work; there is a bitterness and cold desperation to England that sings of old triumphs burnt to ashes in the palm of a hand. Whatever he seeks, he hasn't found it, and so he pours himself into their work.

England is very good at killing people, though.

America's a sharp-shooter. He's their ace at getting into places, disarming suspicion, setting up a cover that no one will dispute. And he's great at pulling a trigger to hit dead center. His strangulation technique isn't half-bad. He can play a mean hand of poker.

But England—the first time they met, America reached out to touch his wrist and next thing he knew, England had him locked on the dirty tiles with a switchblade digging into the tender flesh under America's eye socket. Pretty impressive. That's the kind of killer that England is: dirty, fast, and efficient. His language is as foul as his temper, and he'll drink on the job if he wants to, but America doesn't trust anyone more with their lives.

Probably because the second time they met, England saved his ass and nearly got blown up in the process. There's something a little perfect in that.

(And also, England stitches clothes, keeps a unicorn plushie in his beat-up car, and brings him godawful home-baked goods whenever they're stalking a target. That's not a guy that stabs you in the back. That's a guy that you marry, kind of, and every day America gets a little more closer to that than he'd like to admit.)

* * *

Their newest target is a well-known politician who can't keep his hands off of little boys. America uses a knife. He doesn't always use a knife, but sometimes heroes don't have the luxury of dishing out justice with clean hands. Though he does wash his hands later that night, before cooking the chicken.

England usually goes off and does his own thing after a kill, but sometimes not. Sometimes he follows America home, just to scoff at "Alfred."

America is okay with that.

"You really shouldn't use those seasonings," England tells him, sliding down languidly in a kitchen chair. "Not for chicken."

"I like 'em."

"You haven't any bloody taste buds, that's why. Besides, you should think about your guests first." England is British, as one would assume from his namesake, and has no right to talk about taste buds. So America ignores him. He doesn't look at him, either, because England will be watching him with those hooded, unreadable eyes that match too well the grit of the streets. Watching, his mouth a graceful scowl.

So instead, America prepares the oven and slides the bird onto the rack.

"America," says England, soft-like.

If he looks, it's over. But then, it's also so inevitable that America wonders why he bothers trying. It's not like he doesn't want it. Want England.

England, who doesn't fit into this Alfred-like apartment at all, but somehow belongs tangled in America's ( _Alfred's_ ) sheets, regardless. They don't fuck very often. But once in a while, they do. Once in a while too few, for America.

The oven is switched off before the chicken is done. The table jolts against the linoleum loudly when England is rammed into its edge, too loud for assassins, too impatient for a professional. They never make it to the bedroom. America spreads his hands (so much bigger than the bones they cover) over England's back and grinds his erection between England's legs, where the seam of his jeans splits him. England kisses like he's biting back at first, but in the end, as he always does, he subsides and opens to America, cracks the natural fight of his body in two like a wishbone. His fingers hold on to America, the way partners must to prevent falling apart. Like maybe he really would.

America has him right there on the kitchen table. And when he's got England's thighs held up in his hands, when he's sliding inside—so slow that it's _unbearable_ —and England covers his open mouth but can't stop the tiny noise that escapes, a frantic _ohhh_ that draws into the air between them longer than it means to, that's when…

But no. It's a secret.

* * *

No one ever asks America the question. But it's one of those things that has to be done, so every year, America makes sure to ask it of himself.

"Why do you kill people for a living?" he'll inquire of the mirror. Not murder; it's not murder. But a life is still gone, and that's something America knows is important.

There are a lot of answers he could give. It's for the money, which is top notch. It's for the people who can't afford to be trampled by certain factions any longer. It's for his ex-girlfriend, who thought little quarterback Alfred would take her out of her small town wretchedness before a premature grave tore her asunder. It's for the ideal of a world where you don't have to watch your back because someone's watching it for you. It's because England would drink himself to death if it isn't America, just America. It's because America _can_ , and he has to, and he's never been able to back away from a challenge.

But every year, America still ends up telling his reflection the same thing.

"I got a taste for this," he says, and smiles until the edges line up like soldiers.


End file.
